


Risk

by Severina



Series: The Condemnedverse [7]
Category: Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: Community: tamingthemuse, Post Season 2
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-20
Updated: 2012-05-20
Packaged: 2017-11-05 16:31:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,433
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/408572
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Severina/pseuds/Severina
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Okay," Glenn breathes out.  "You know you're… actually kind of scary, right?"</p>
            </blockquote>





	Risk

**Author's Note:**

> Written for LJ's tamingthemuse community, for the prompt 'dystychiphobia' (fear of accidents, but also fear of hurting someone). Post Season Two. This is the last story in the condemnedverse series. But I kind of fell in love with this 'verse, so I fully intend to revisit it with some standalones in the future.
> 
> * * *

"It's not right," Maggie insists. "We need to leave _now_."

She's sitting next to Glenn on one of the old lawn chairs they found and dragged out of the storage shed, back when they were just setting up a new camp and things looked rosy, maybe about the same time him and the kid were gettin' boxed in by too many walkers and no place to run. Sitting too close to Glenn, one knee pressed up against his. Leaning forward to catch Rick's eye, one hand covering Glenn's. 

Daryl leans against the tree and keeps his own eyes lowered, watches the dust-webs caught in the tattered mesh of her chair twist in the light breeze. She's got a smear of dirt on one long leg, a single shoelace untied in a pair of dusty white sneakers.

"I understand your fear, Maggie," Rick says reasonably.

"Do you? Glenn almost _died_ today!"

"I didn't almost die—"

"And you're sitting there telling us we should _stay_? That's bullshit."

"Maggie, you will watch your language," Hershel drawls out.

Daryl lets his head fall back against the tree, changes his perspective to the curve of branches against the blue of a brilliant sky. Not for the first time he wishes he could just walk away, leave the fool lot of them to their fate. Sure, Rick's calmed down some since that night a week ago, when he made his big proclamation, declared himself King Shit of Turd Mountain. But he's still got that look in his eye, every now and then. That one that says _don't fuck with me if you know what's good for you_. Daryl recognizes the look, respects it. The rest of them? Fucking clueless. Just 'cause Rick's still lettin' them natter this way and that 'til they're blue in the face they think it's somehow gone back to a democracy, but these dumb bitches keep pressin' their luck and the Grimes hammer is gonna fall. 

"Maybe she's right," Lori says. 

Daryl looks over at the group then. Near as he can tell, Lori ain't said more than two words to Rick in the past week that don't involve their boy, and if anybody's gonna sway him now it'll be her. But Rick is shaking his head.

"Rick," she says.

"Lori—"

"It's dangerous."

" _Everywhere_ is dangerous," Rick says. "We live in a world filled with risk."

"I'm telling you," T-Dog puts in, "we head to the coast. We find a boat, head out to an island—"

"And what, live on coconuts?" Daryl told himself he was going to stay the hell out of it, keep his mouth shut, but they been goin' round one fucking stupid idea after another for fifteen minutes now and that's about twelve minutes longer than it takes for him to get testy. "Hell, maybe we can get the Professor to make us one of those bamboo bikes, huh Gilligan?"

"Maybe you just want to keep your mouth shut, Dixon."

"Yeah? You wanna shut it for me?"

Daryl's hands are already fisted when he steps away from the tree; the chair that T-Dog was perched on upended when he rose. He can already tell by T-Dog's stance that he ain't got no street fightin' skills, fucker will wade in hopin' that brute strength wins out. Daryl figures on taking one, maybe two solid hits to the head, but he's had plenty of experience takin' shots and there ain't no way the other guy is ever gonna win in this battle.

Then a hand thumps onto his chest; Rick's face fills his vision. "Stand down," Rick says.

"Motherfucker ain't—"

"Stand. Down." Rick eyes him for a second, looks over his shoulder at T-Dog. "Both of you."

He's aware then that Glenn and Maggie had risen too, Glenn's face pinched, his eyes darting between him and T like he's watchin' a goddamn ping pong tournament. The farmer's daughter with her fingers wrapped tight around his bicep, like maybe she could hold him back if he decided to jump into the fray. Rick meets his eyes, nods once, hand still solid on his chest; Daryl grits his teeth, throws out a hand and takes a step back. It seems to him like the clearing itself takes a collective breath.

"We're through talking about this," Rick says.

"But another herd could have heard the shots, right?" Beth looks like she'd rather swallow her own fuckin' tongue than speak up, but she does it anyway. Girl might have more balls than he thought. "They could be heading toward us right now."

Daryl rounds on her anyway. "You wanna know the truth, little girl? They could be headin' for us anytime, anywhere. No place is safe, you got that?"

"Daryl—"

Daryl gathers up his bow and strides off before he can hear the rest.

* * *

He finds a secluded spot under a tree far away from the others, pulls the rag out of his back pocket and gets to work on his knives. Whatever black shit the geeks got for blood fucks up the blades real quick, and the last thing he needs is a dull knife if one of those fuckers stumbles up the path or makes its way through the woods. He tries to stay focused on scouring all the dried gunk from between the serrated edges, his movements quick and sharp. Practiced. Can do this shit in his sleep.

Which is exactly why his mind wanders.

To the Grimes kid, glaring at him from beneath the brim of that fucking hat, tryin' so hard to be tough for his old man. To the pitying look Carol gave him when he stalked away, like maybe she was wrong about him. Well, no shit. You bet on a Dixon you're bettin' on the wrong fuckin' horse, lady. To Maggie, sneering down her nose at him, the disgust plain as day on her face. 

To Glenn, whose eyes only met the ground when he walked away.

Daryl sneers, thrusts the clean blade into the ground and digs in his pocket for his sharpening stone. The day started out fucked up and it only went downhill from there. Stuck up on that roof with those memories, closin' his eyes and still seeing Merle's hand – his goddamn brother's hand – lying on the fucking asphalt… the geeks snarlin' and yappin' in the lot, and not enough ammo to take 'em out, and nowhere to run… and then the sun beatin' down and baking his brains in his skull, making him crazy. He lost his mind, that's all. Got lost in the insanity of _want_ instead of remembering the fucking truth. 

He's got his focus back now. Keep himself alive. Watch out for Carol. Keep half an eye on the Grimes brat, 'cause his mother sure as hell ain't. Do what he has to do to survive. Nothing more than that.

He don't deserve more than that.

And Glenn deserves…. 

Daryl shakes his head. What he doesn't deserve is what you _get_ with a Dixon. 'Cause then you get Merle's old lady, the blood still dripping down her arm as she staggered after the truck's disappearing tail-lights. You get the temp girl doin' paperwork for the garage, the one Daryl was fucking for six months, the one that always smelled like coconut sunscreen and cherry gum, and you get hearin' her screamin' your name from the other side of the lot and a dozen broken down cars and _several_ dozen rotting staggering geeks between you and her. You get a boss, the one that promised to make you full partner by the end of next year, the one that would've finally given you the pull to get out from under a brother that you love like breath but who is slowly killing you, and you get to watch him swan dive from the roof of a low-rise as the walkers close in.

Glenn deserves Maggie and her pert little tits, her long legs and her upright daddy. He deserves more, not less.

If the sun hadn't boiled his brain so bad today, he'd have realized that a hell of a lot sooner, and saved them both a lot of bullshit. 

Hell, if history has taught him anything, it's that if you get involved with a Dixon, you just get hurt.

* * *

He's got the blade honed to a nice razor-sharp edge by the time he hears the shuffling in the grass to his left. He doesn't bother to look up, not even when the sneakers stop at the edge of his vision and the kid's shadow falls over him.

"So," Glenn says. "We're staying."

Daryl grunts. Like he needed the kid to tell him that. 

"Rick said that the strip mall is far enough away that the chances of any walkers coming this far out are slim," Glenn continues. "And that we could run into a herd out on the road just as easily."

The knife is as sharp as it's going to be, and any more grinding will just weaken the blade. Daryl keeps up a slow, methodical pull on the stone anyway. 

The sneakers don't move. 

The sun beats down on his bent neck. 

Finally Daryl squints up. "You got somethin' else to say, chinaman?"

"Okay. So you _are_ mad at me, then. I can always tell, 'cause that's when you go back to calling me 'chinaman' instead of something equally wrong and sort of semi-racist yet somehow not as annoying, like Wo Fat."

Daryl shrugs. "Ain't mad. Unless it's 'cause you're _standin' in my goddamn light_."

"Right." Glenn startles at that, steps quickly to the side. And that should be it, done. The kid came over, he delivered his message, his girl's waitin' for him. But just like everybody else in this sorry-ass group, the kid don't know when to stop yappin'. "Look. Look, about what happened—"

"Nothin' happened."

"Well. No. But something _could_ have happened—"

"No," Daryl says shortly, "it couldn't."

He doesn't look up to see how the kid takes this, can picture easily enough the frown on the kid's face, the way the skin on his brow crinkles when he gets upset, his eyes narrowing down to slits, his lower lip jutting out. He keeps on sharpening his knife, the blade singing on the stone, and only hears the shuffle of Glenn's sneakers as he starts to turn away because he's attuned to it. Whether that's because of his years knowin' the sounds that don't belong to nature or because he's attuned to Glenn is somethin' he doesn't want to think too closely about.

Then the shuffling stops. Jesus fucking Christ.

"Okay, look," Glenn says again. "Maybe you think nothing would have happened and maybe I think you're really wrong about that, but the thing is, I am super bad at keeping secrets, and I'm even worse about not looking guilty when I've got secrets to keep, and—"

Daryl is on his feet before he even knows he's going to move, takes the step that puts him up close and real personal with the kid. "You got nothin' to tell," he says. "You hear me?"

"Okay," Glenn breathes out. "You know you're… actually kind of scary, right?"

Daryl blinks away from the kid's big eyes, only then realizing that the blade is still clutched in one hand. A couple of inches to the left and Glenn wouldn't be makin' music with nobody. Ever. 

He juts out his chin, meets the kid's eyes again. "Maybe you'd best remember that."

"Yeah," Glenn says shakily. 

They are close enough, chest to chest, that Daryl can feel the thrum of Glenn's body, practically hear the blood rushing through his veins. The kid's heart is pounding double-time, and Daryl's been here plenty of times, in schoolyards and bar parking lots, stand-offs where nine times out of ten the other fucker ups and runs like a pussy. 

Except Glenn don't look at all scared. The kid looks… amused, maybe. 

Daryl straightens his shoulders, shoves out with one hand enough to send the kid stumbling back a step. "The hell's your problem?" he bites out.

"I don't have a—" Glenn starts, before sighing and removing his cap to shove a hand through his sweaty hair. "Look, I need to… I want to talk to you. But first I have to go see Hershel." 

"So? Go. You see me givin' a shit?"

"I see no shit being given," Glenn says solemnly. 

And fuck if it doesn't make him want to grin, so Daryl turns his head, stares past Glenn down the rutted path that leads to the road. Sends mental _get the fuck out_ messages that the kid clearly doesn't pick up on, 'cause he still keeps goddamn talkin'.

"He gave me something," Glenn says, "back at the farmhouse. He thought I was the right man for his daughter. He thought I was a… different man." He mouth quirks, a lop-sided half grin that merges with a one-shouldered shrug that makes him look gawky and awkward, and even more of a goddamn kid than he actually is. "I think I was trying to be. But that's just… stupid, really, especially now. When you've got dead people trying to eat you, acting the way that's expected kind of flies out the window, you know? So I have to return something to Hershel. Because… it's not right, to let a man think one thing about you, when you're thinking another thing entirely. About another man. Is it?"

Daryl scowls, scrubs a hand over his chin. "Fuckin' talk English."

"Maybe you'll understand this better," Glenn says.

In the space of a heartbeat Glenn has leaned forward, one hand pressed lightly against his heart. In another their lips are touching. 

It is the barest brush of lips, soft and warm; and before Daryl can even begin to process it, Glenn is dancing backwards, his eyes gleaming. 

And he doesn't want to, but he follows the kid's progress, watches him stop Hershel in the dusty yard outside the dilapidated motel. Sees the kid gesture with his arm, hold out something with a chain, something that glints in the late afternoon light. 

Daryl licks his lips. 

His brain is shooting out emergency messages, telling him this is a bad idea, that it's only gonna end in disaster, that the risk is too great. Glenn is too good for this, doesn't know what he's in for. Glenn will get hurt. He'll get hurt. 

But his heart is beating out its own tale, pounding out its own double-time rhythm. And he thinks maybe he better trust it. Take the risk. Just this once.


End file.
